“…and you?” asked MacQueen. He still wasn’t sure that he was following his friend. He momentarily wondered if he might be a bit crazy.
“I sometimes fantasized about shooting it all away—making the world a barracks or a charnel house. Why shouldn’t soldiers run things in turnabout with the others? They grab their piece and retire; soldiers are just given enough to survive. Can you imagine a world run by soldiers, MacQueen?” the sergeant asked.
“Sounds great, if Sergeant Browne wasn’t the boss,” answered MacQueen.
“Aye, there’s the rub, eh? What if I was boss, MacQueen? Go ahead, mister soldier, answer that.”
MacQueen visualized the sergeant standing on that dirt road with no clothes. In a new version of the picture, a .45 Colt automatic had appeared in his hand. It swung around—and MacQueen was looking into two eyes and a gun barrel.
“You’d have fun for a while,” answered MacQueen slowly. “Burning down Rome might be fun, but what then?”
“If we did it in the name of the king?” The sergeant’s smile was a shade more triumphant. “Never mind El Presidente. What if we did it in the name of the king? What about your oath, MacQueen, eh?”
“The king would order you to stop,” said MacQueen. “What of your oath then, Sergeant?”
“Why would the king order his soldiers to stop?” asked the sergeant, a little less surely now.
“Because the king is a gentleman,” said MacQueen. He said it humbly and did not enjoy the checkmate.
The sergeant looked at him blankly and then blinked his eyes. “Christ,” he said. “Is that what gentlemen are for?” He leaned back in his chair and gazed into space. His carefully constructed world of gun emplacements and enfilading fields of fire was cracking a bit at the seams. It must be spring, he thought. Flowers are beginning to bloom in my head.
“Let’s go back to the barracks,” he said. “You will be starting your new career tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow!” exclaimed MacQueen.
“Yes, m’boy, God help us. Life was bleak but simple two days ago. What in the hell have we done?” The sergeant reached for his wallet and snapped his fingers for the waitress. She was very miffed at this, but a dollar tip put her in a good humour for a week.
The sun was setting in their eyes when they pulled up to the main gate. The distant sound of the bugle echoed over the fields and through the woods as the Red Ensign was lowered. Most of the traffic on the road was infantry soldiers walking to and from town. The sergeant left some rye whisky in the trunk for his second lieutenant, and MacQueen and the sergeant parted ways. Each had a lot to think over on his own.
MacQueen finished the letter to his mother and put it in his pocket; he would get a stamp from the staff sergeant in the morning. Then a French phrase came into his mind that he remembered from school. He printed it on another sheet of YMCA paper, put it in his last envelope, and addressed it to:
Sergeant William Cyples, WNSR
Sergeants’ Mess
Aldershot, N.S.
The note read: “Chef bien peigné porte mal bacinet.”
He didn’t sign the note. Of course, he did not include the translation, which might read: “A well-groomed head wears the helmet badly.”
Let the sergeant figure it out.
12
On the following day, Patrick MacQueen ceased to be a signalman and became a private in the West Nova Scotia Regiment. This regiment had been formed by an amalgamation of the old Annapolis and Lunenburg Regiments, each of which had traditions dating back to the early days of the colony. The men were of Acadian, British, German, and even Mi’kmaq stock, and many were descended from the demobilized veterans of the American Revolution.
The regiment followed custom by being affiliated with the British South Lancashire Regiment, or The Prince of Wales Volunteers. The regimental march was WENASCO, and the new dress field service cap was blue with gold piping and a buff centre crown—the old colours of the 49th Regiment of Foot. The respective colour standards of the two founding regiments were preserved in their chapels at Annapolis and Lunenburg, and each of them bore battle honours of the First World War.
Although the West Novas were hardly the Coldstream Guards, or even the Permanent Force in peacetime, it was a militia regiment on active service, with honourable traditions and a good record. Its badge contained reminders of the two parent regiments and the mayflower badge of the province. These were set on a sunburst and surrounded by the legend: WEST NOVA SCOTIA REGIMENT – SEMPER FIDELIS. On top of this was the crown, and on the bottom, simply, CANADA.
MacQueen accepted the new badge, but he slipped the old Signals Mercury badge into his pocket for a memento. ALWAYS FAITHFUL, it said.
He was then issued a tangle of webgear to hang his equipment from: a water bottle, haversack, knapsack, rain cape, winter hat, respirator, and all the other equipment of a foot soldier. Then he was issued his .303 Lee-Enfield rifle, the long bayonet like a miniature sword in its black scabbard.
Signalman Pineo helped him to lug all of this to his new hut, which was number 11. That coincided with the cabin that he had shared with the sergeant, and he hoped it was a good omen.
The hut had the corporal’s cubicle on the left, rows of double-deck bunks down the sides, as well as two stoves and two tables with benches down the middle. All of the bunks were neatly made up in regulation style, with the mattress rolled and the blankets folded on top. Everyone’s equipment was displayed for the orderly officer’s inspection when he walked through.
In the centre of the hut, a small, thin young private in shirtsleeves was pushing a broom. A cloud of dust was settling over everything. “Sprinkle some water on the fuckin’ floor,” shouted Pineo, wrinkling his nose.
The sweeper looked up and frowned. His pants were too big for him, and he looked as though he was going to slip out of the collar of his shirt. His hair bristled straight up. He glanced at Pineo’s sleeve. “Who you think you are?” he said combatively.
“Je suis acadienne aussi, you bloody nit,” answered Pineo. “Throw some water on that floor or they’ll nail you to the wall!”
“Dat’s you bunk,” said the sweeper, pointing to a lower end one. “You are under me. I got here yesterday.” He went to look for a bucket.
“Jesus!” said Pineo. “I hope you know what you’re doin’, Pat. I didn’t think it could get grimmer, but this is the worst.”
They threw the equipment on the bunk. MacQueen glanced about and reflected on the cheerless scene: mud outside the door, no trees, some dirty wisps of snow, and a bare unpainted barracks under a grey sky. And his bunk was next to the door and far from the stove. He grinned. “There’s a war on,” he said and shared the last of his cigarettes with his friend. “What the hell?”
They shook hands and Pineo left for the headquarters building and his warm switchboard. MacQueen took off his greatcoat and started to assemble his equipment. It would all have to be balanced, then all of the brass buckles and end pieces polished. It would take an hour to get a shine on the new cap badge. The rifle was also new, and would have to be cleaned and oiled. The bayonet showed some rust, and the new boots would take weeks to work into a gloss. Besides, he had some laundry to wash. There was no time to feel sorry for himself now.
The sweeper looked younger than MacQueen. “I am Antoine,” he said. “Just call me Tony.” They shook hands. MacQueen hoped Tony didn’t pee the bed.
“Atten-shun!”
MacQueen leapt to his feet, dropping everything, and froze. The sweeper jumped like a rabbit and stood with his broom like a rifle at his side. The orderly sergeant stomped into the hut wearing a red sash across his chest. He stood aside, and a young officer entered, who was the orderly officer. He wore a collar and tie, a khaki peaked cap, and carried a swagger stick.
“As you were, men,” said the officer. They relaxed, but only slightly.
“What the bloody hell is going on in here?” roared the sergeant, fanning the air. No one answered. The serg
eant removed a giant clipboard from under his arm and licked the end of a pencil stub.
“Nobody said to put water on it,” said Tony.
The boards shook as the sergeant marched up to the sweeper. He towered in front of him. “If you were speaking to me then you address me as sergeant!” he said.
“I apologize, Sergeant,” answered Tony.
“That will do, Sergeant,” said the officer calmly.
The sergeant stomped his foot and barked, “Sir!”
The officer proceeded down the hut and came abreast of MacQueen. The new infantry private tensed to rigidity again.
“Have I seen you before?” asked the officer.
MacQueen glanced at him. He had been standing at the gate when MacQueen had forgotten to salute when returning from the movie. “I have just transferred from Headquarters Company, sir,” he replied. The officer had a wispy moustache. His cap was absolutely level and his uniform was obviously tailor-made. MacQueen hazarded a glance at his cap badge, and his heart sank. This was a second lieutenant of the Permanent Force, the Royal Canadian Regiment. What in the hell was he doing inspecting huts in Aldershot, Nova Scotia? The officer hesitated another moment as the sergeant shifted nervously. He wanted to get on with the job. The officer certainly smelled like a gentleman.
“Good show,” he said, and then they were gone.
MacQueen gulped.
“What’s up?” asked Tony. “They goin’ to screw us, eh?”
“Forget it,” MacQueen said. “We’ll be okay.”
MacQueen went to the laundry room. There was no hot water, so he heated some basins on the stove and washed his socks and underwear in the long tin trays. He spread the web equipment and daubed the creamy Blanco on it evenly. Every platoon’s clothes iron was kept in the corporal’s cubicle. Tony sneaked that, and they ironed out the creases of his new battle dress. He daubed black polish onto the new boots and worked on them until his arms were sore. Tony buffed the cap badge and kept muttering in French, but then he broke out with “I Found My Trill on Blueberry Hill”.
MacQueen laughed. The two hills in the camp were Blueberry and Strawberry. That song was a recent hit, and Tony didn’t manage his ths very well.
A platoon burst through the doors like a reverse abandon ship. They were talking, shouting, lighting cigarettes, jostling, and generally behaving like children at recess. They each held a .303 Lee-Enfield rifle and wore their web gear over their greatcoats. The younger ones’ cheeks were flushed, and the older ones were weary. The floor shook as each man headed for his own bunk to unload his gear and try for some comfort. Morale seems high, thought MacQueen. Tony introduced him to a big Acadian named Andy, and a few others introduced themselves. Soon he would know them all. The corporal was a tall and dusky descendant of a negro Loyalist family. He was rangy and cautious but seemed friendly enough.
The first twenty-mile company route march was scheduled for the morning. That would keep them going all day. With full equipment, respirators, and helmets, they wouldn’t be so lively tomorrow night.
Sergeant Bill Cyples retrieved the envelope from his box in the sergeants’ mess. He sat in one of the battered old chairs and ordered a bottle of beer. He then took out his pocketknife and sliced the envelope—no one wrote letters to him.
He unfolded the single sheet and saw the line printed in French by pencil. It said something about a bad head and a helmet. The waiter was Acadian and looked at it, frowning. “It means that if you have a good haircut you can’t wear a basinet—er, helmet—good. Something like that, sergeant.” The sergeant smiled and tipped him fifty cents.
He lit a cigarette and raised the beer in front of his eyes. “To a comrade,” had been their toast. Goddamnit, thought the sergeant, I’ve never had one.
13
The Number One Platoon was certainly the best in A Company. The Canadian system of volunteers threw people together in a mixed bag of age groups, unlike conscription, where the call-up is by the year of birth. Some of the instructors and camp personnel were veterans of the last war, and most of the senior NCOs were ex-militia, or NPAM. The navy and the air force were also beginning to compete for manpower, but the West Novas drew most of their manpower from the district. That translated into mostly farmers and fishermen, with some from the towns. The high school recruits may have had some cadet training, but basically the material was raw and varied in age from eighteen to late thirties.
The RCR Company’s sergeant major stood at the top of the parade ground. The entire company was in full combat gear and loosely assembled to the side near their huts, while the sergeants and officers formed two distinct groups at the other side. Everyone became silent when the sergeant major shouted, “Markers!” The men designated as markers then marched out onto the parade ground, marking the alignment and spacing for the rest of the troops to complete their formations. After they had fallen in, the sergeants called the roll for their platoons and reported all correct. After the adjutant ordered the officers to fall in, the sergeants saluted them and took their positions behind their platoons. The adjutant then reported to the company commander that the company was correct and ready for inspection.
Commencement took place every morning in every army camp, sometimes with more elaborate procedures than normal. It collected everyone together at the same time, in the same general costume, and was a basic exercise in control and the stage-setting for communal ritual. It prepared the men for the day.
Every parade ground is a stage, and every parade is a form of choreography. One tests the boards, one judges the dimensions, and one practises one’s art. The aim is perfection of performance, acceptance by the group, and praise from one’s immediate superior. The hard road to achieve these aims binds the group together and makes a unit out of them. To the average private soldier, that is his field of vision.
The particular arrangement MacQueen’s company performed that day was called “company in close column”, which is ceremonial in function. During the manoeuvres, each platoon is inspected by its officer and, on occasion, by the company commander himself. The company is the largest unit wherein the commander can have a face-to-face acquaintance with everyone in it, although this is only theoretically possible in fast-changing times. The soldier has enough to do just keeping track of himself and his platoon.
The company marched off in column of route with their HQ Platoon in front and Sergeant Cyples’ awkward squad in the rear. The new colonel stood in front of the headquarters building, with Captain Dribble at his side and the staff sergeant looking out a window. Everyone turned their heads, on command, to look at the colonel while trying to keep in step. Two drummers beat the step, and the colonel saluted his soldiers. MacQueen thought that he saw the old staff sergeant wave. Then they were through the main gate and onto the gravel road. They avoided the town and wound through the apple orchards, where they unbuttoned their tunics, slung their rifles, and started to sing songs like “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary” and then “Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit-Bag”. They were songs their fathers had taught them from a war not so long ago. The roots of comradeship burrowed further, and they had twenty miles to go.
It was the first warm day, and as the sun reached its modest zenith, some of the soldiers began to flag. Sweat trickled from under their helmets and their backs ached under the heavy load. At ten minutes to every hour there was a rest and any man who couldn’t continue, from blistered feet or whatever the cause, was left to be picked up later. A truck arrived at noon with hot tea and tasteless sandwiches. They removed their equipment, spread their groundsheets, and relaxed. Most of them changed their socks.
MacQueen was sitting on a groundsheet with his bunkmate, Tony Gaudette, holding a boot in one hand and examining the heel of his right foot. He had noticed Sergeant Cyples joking with his men, and Sergeant Browne was talking to one of the second lieutenants. Mother Nature seemed to be stirring, and despite the cold wind from the Bay of Fundy, spring was slowly announcing itself. The world ro
tated on its ancient axis as men prepared for the great test of combat.
Sergeant Cyples sauntered alongside the muddy ditch and casually stopped opposite Number One Platoon. He was a popular figure in the company because of his colourful language and irreverent manner. “You guys are too slow,” he said. “You are holding up Number Five.” The men hooted in derision, and the sergeant smiled broadly.
“Are you okay there?” he asked MacQueen.
“New boots,” answered MacQueen, holding the boot in the air. Private Gaudette held his nose and fanned the air while the others laughed. Sergeant Browne saw this other sergeant with his platoon and walked down the road to join him—they all envied Sergeant Cyples’ popularity.
“Are you having trouble, MacQueen?” asked Sergeant Browne. Tony was readjusting some straps on his equipment, and the others were relaxing or talking among themselves.
Sergeant Cyples looked at Sergeant Browne and, still smiling, said inaudibly, “You are a cock-sucking son-of-a-whore, Browne.”
Sergeant Browne looked as though he had been struck in the face. No one else had heard the words except MacQueen, who sat with his boot foolishly in the air and a stricken look on his face. Sergeant Browne looked quickly into the distance in disbelief, then turned and walked back down the road. Sergeant Cyples nonchalantly turned in the other direction and rejoined his platoon. A whistle sounded, and MacQueen hurriedly laced his boot and buckled his equipment.
“What’s the matter?” asked Tony. “You don’t look so good.”
“Nothing, Tony,” said MacQueen. “I’ll carry your rifle for a while if you get tired.” They formed up on the road and resumed the march.
At the same time, the Germans were moving into Denmark to attack Norway and protect their northern flank. The British would then move to occupy Iceland. The A Company of the West Nova Scotia Regiment returned to Aldershot.
14
The remainder of the week was spent in such a frenzy of activity that MacQueen barely had time to reflect on the insult deliberately extended to his sergeant. His muscles ached from the new routine, and he bent his thoughts and sinews into keeping pace with the constant demands on them.
The Broken Sword Page 6